The existentialists were right. When I wake up, for a moment, I am the spark of life. I have no backstory. I am nobody. I have no culture. I am just a being of feeling—these days often tiredness and aches.
I hear sounds but they are elemental. They exist as disconnected noise. I feel things, but they are not connected to my limbs. I don’t know what limbs are.
Existence precedes essence.
And then memories trickle in, I have a backstory. I am human. I am in love, or not. I am sick, or not. I check my phone, worry about sex, and wake up. 